(darkhart)

In the dark heart
of me,
there is no Prince
Charming, no
one who could
touch my cheek
and change
the world.
No memory of
green velvet
dresses I wore.
I am weary
there of friends
who only talk
about their friends,
and share nothing
of themselves.
Of men who
boast of being
sensitive
and women
who claim to
be sensual.
Things I think
best left
unsaid.
I am nauseous
there from all
the words,
I had to ingest
which didn’t
interest me.
This existential
boredom, piling
up like laundry.

The place where
I have receded
rather than be
rude, where I
thought I had
to endure
what I didn’t know
how to change.

3/10/99